


Nightmares

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Nightmares, PTSD, Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9111292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock finds that he needs someone when he comes back from Serbia.





	1. Chapter One

          “I can’t believe he punched me,” Sherlock’s voice was muffled as he pulled his undershirt off over his head. “I thought John would be pleased to see me.”

          “Sherlock, you muppet, I told you not to surprise him. John was _destroyed_ when you died, I couldn’t even look at hi—“

          Molly’s voice strangled in her throat and whatever she had been going to say was wiped from her mind. Sherlock, self-absorbed as he was, noticed that she had stopped talking and turned to look at her. “You were saying?”

          “Your back,” she whispered over her mounting horror. “Oh my God, Sherlock, _your back_.”

          An unaccustomed look of unease sat ill on his haughty face. “Oh. Yes. Well I did say—“

          “You said you needed a little ointment—“ Molly started crying and he panicked.

          “Don’t do that,” he practically begged, looking incredibly uncomfortable. She knew he didn’t know how to handle an excess of emotions, and if she had been able she would have stopped and spared him the discomfort. But his back was covered in overlapping gauze bandages, and nearly every one of them was bloody.

          “They weren’t doing too badly,” Sherlock offered, trying to sound nonchalant. “But then John and I rolled around in the street—twice—and I think some of them opened up.”

          Molly pulled herself together, “I’d say most of them did. Hold on,” she hurried to the loo and collected what she needed. Coming back into the room she spread out a towel and instructed him to sit on the kitchen chair and she set about gently removing the tape and gauze. Sherlock talked through the process, hissing occasionally when the gauze stuck, as she cleaned him up. He unleashed a torrent of words on her, apparently attempting to both distract her and impart everything of value that had happened in the last twenty-six months.

          Three weeks had passed since she had kept vigil with Mycroft, awaiting word on Sherlock’s location in Serbia. Almost a week after Mycroft’s precipitous departure, she had received a text from Mycroft: PACKAGE OBTAINED. WILL RETURN TO YOU POST HASTE. BE SHOCKED, IT’S MEANT TO BE A SURPRISE.

          Not a word more had she heard from Mycroft. She had acted appropriately amazed to see Sherlock in the locker room at Bart’s this afternoon, but they hadn’t had time for more than a few minutes hurried conversation before he was off in his eagerness to track down John. Molly was thrilled Sherlock was back, even though there were no doubt going to be repercussions for her both personally and professionally for having lied to all and sundry about the tiny matter of Sherlock’s “suicide” and autopsy. She supposed that Mycroft would work his usual magic on behalf of his brother. Maybe it would force a meeting between them?

          Although if it did, she hadn’t the foggiest notion what to say. He had behaved so strangely when he left that she couldn’t understand whether he was mad at her, or at himself. And what was she supposed to do now? Break off her engagement with Tom? Declare her love for Mycroft? Would he even be receptive? If Sherlock didn’t do relationships, then Mycroft was on a whole other plane of solitary existence; it was all too depressingly possible that it had just been a momentary physical weakness for him. Was she going to sabotage her engagement for a man who couldn’t possibly want a relationship with her?

          Between her private anguish and her worry over Sherlock’s wounds, she needed a drink by the time she had him cleaned up and re-bandaged. Putting away her medical supplies, she asked if he wanted anything to drink or eat. Tom and she maintained separate apartments since they both had leases, and while they would spend nights at one another’s place, he wasn’t here tonight, thus sparing her the necessity of watching Sherlock pick him apart and having to find an explanation of the whole mess for Tom. So far Sherlock hadn’t asked her anything about her life while he had been gone, and since she hadn’t been wearing her ring either earlier today when she saw him, nor now when he had shown up at her flat, she was experiencing something of a reprieve. No doubt he would deduce her relationship soon enough, but for now he seemed to think all was as he had left it when he disappeared more than two years before.

          “Perhaps some tea,” he surprised her by saying. He was trying to ease into his shirt but looked stiff. He cursed in annoyance and she shook her head. “Here, take those paracetamol I put out for you—that’ll help with the stiffness—and leave the shirt off.”

          She made a pot of tea and without asking she made fried egg sandwiches. A little judicious bullying and he would eat. Sure enough, before long they were sharing a snack, and he looked a little calmer. His return had muddied the waters of her calm life, but she was so happy to have him back that she didn’t care. Molly found herself beaming at him, “I am happy to have you back, you great big nuisance.”

          Sherlock looked affronted, although this was spoiled somewhat by the egg on his chin. “You’re remarkably rude for someone who is supposed to be in love with me.”

          Molly rolled her eyes, “Was. _Was_ in love with you. Also? That’s impolite to bring up if I were still in love with you.”

          “Thank heavens. I was afraid it might be uncomfortable if I were sitting here in my trousers, giving you ideas.”

          A wicked grin curved Molly’s mouth, “Who says I’m not still having ideas?”

          Sherlock was confused, “Are you?”

          “Not especially.” She touched his shoulder fondly as she stood to collect their plates, “You’re still desirable, don’t worry. But I’ll be able to restrain myself.”

          “You’re joking.”

          “A bit. But only in fun.”

          “Mm. Can I stay the night then?”

          Luckily her back was to him, otherwise even cynical, “emotions are for weaklings” Sherlock would have taken offense at the shock on Molly’s face. He sounded casual, but she couldn’t imagine why he would want to stay if he didn’t expect sex. Then she thought of the lash marks and bruises on his back and grimly reassessed. He probably didn’t want to be alone…it was clear he had been through something awful before his brother rescued him. “Not staying at 221B?” She asked as casually as possible.

          “Mrs. Hudson didn’t rent the flat, but my things are all boxed up and there aren’t any sheets for the bed.”

          Since she had seen him nap on an autopsy table, Molly was guessing he was using this flimsy excuse not to be alone. There was no way she was turning him away if he was reaching out. Even if Tom showed up. The three of them would just have to share the bed.

          She offered Sherlock a pair of sweatpants that Tom had left behind; surprisingly he didn’t try to deduce where they had come from, nor did he even ask, he took them and headed for the bedroom while she went to shower. She dried her hair as much as she could with a towel, then braided it and put on her pajamas; she had purposefully chosen a long sleeved top and leggings, since she didn’t want to look like she was trying to seduce him.

          When she entered the bedroom Sherlock had turned out the light and switched on the bedside lamps but was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling shy,” she teased.

          “Hardly. I can’t sleep on my back, however, and it takes a bit of effort to get up once I’ve laid down on my front, so I was waiting to see which side of the bed you wanted.”

          She was touched; it was one of the sweetest things he had ever done for her. “I usually sleep on the right side. Here, let me get some extra pillows and we can try propping you on your side. That might be more comfortable than you sleeping on your stomach all night.”

          “I’m not an invalid,” he grumbled.

          “You’re welcome,” she said dryly, as she left the room.

          Once he was settled, she fetched the bottle of paracetamol and a glass of water for him and put them on the bedside table. “Just in case you need them. You can have more in another four hours.”

          He watched as she crawled in next to him and settled the covers over them. “You’re different.”

          “Am I?”

          “Mm. Yes. You haven’t stuttered or blushed once all night. And we’re here in bed but we aren’t going to have intercourse. You could have sent me home.”

          “You’re in no condition to _have_ intercourse. And you’re my friend, Sherlock, why would I send you home when you need me?”

          “I don’t need—“

          “No.” Molly was stern, and he looked surprised.

          “You just stop right there. You need people. You know it and so do I. It isn’t a weakness to need other people’s help. It’s human. And like it or not, you _are_ human, Sherlock.”

          He didn’t respond, and she turned off the bedside light. They lay in silence, and she had started to think he was falling asleep when he suddenly spoke. “John is different too.”

          “Is he?” She turned her head toward him, wondering if it was because it was dark that she could so clearly hear his vulnerability.

          “He would have laughed once...I was quite funny. I did a French waiter.”

          Molly winced, “Oh Lord, that’s how you revealed yourself to him?”

          “It was funny. Or it would have been, if he’d not gone off. That Mary has changed him.”

          “I don’t know that she has,” Molly said, “but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He was different once you were gone, Sherlock…thinking you were dead…it did something to him. I could hardly bear to look into his eyes.”

          The silence was layered, eloquent. Something stirred the covers, and then she felt a groping hand and obligingly put her own in it. Sherlock clung to her, and then spoke as if he had muffled his head with the blankets, “I did it to protect him, to protect all of them.”

          “I know, love.”

          “John should understand, he was a soldier, he had to do things for the greater good.”

          “Maybe he does understand, or will. But right now you need to give him space and let him come to terms with…everything. You did land a pretty big bombshell on him.”

          He didn’t respond and after a while she felt herself getting sleepy. They fell asleep holding hands; and in the morning, when she woke before him, in the dim light of dawn peeking around the edges of her curtains she was able to see that he was clutching handfuls of pillows and frowning. He looked both terribly old and terribly young, and Molly felt her heart fill with tenderness and love; he might not be the man she was in love with, any more, but she loved him and was thrilled to have him back.

          But she worried about what kind of price had been asked of him during his time away…she had woken in the night, confused and terrified, until she realized that the horrible moaning she was hearing was coming from Sherlock. Afraid to wake him from his nightmare, she had patted and soothed, talking to him softly until he stopped thrashing and crying out. He never woke, but she spent a long time awake in the dark, wondering what it was he was saying in that language that sounded Slavic.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly needs Sherlock, and he's there for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three is in the works, but I probably won't get it finished and posted until after the New Year. If possible, I will try to get it before then!

_Four months later…_

 

          “How’s your brother?” Molly hadn’t meant to ask, but apparently her subconscious and her heart had gotten together and decided to override her good sense.

          She had been seated at the lab table for several hours, working on samples and paperwork. Sherlock had breezed in about a half hour prior, and set to work on his own experiments, a task which seemed to consist mainly of his sitting motionless, staring at a slide through “his” microscope. Normally he didn’t engage much in conversation when he was absorbed in his lab work, but he seemed to hear her and looked up. “Mycroft?” he asked, as if he had another brother that Molly was acquainted with.

          “Yes, erm, I got to know him a bit while you were gone, and I just hadn’t seen him for some time. I hope he’s well.” Molly couldn’t look at Sherlock any longer, and she ducked her head to her files, feeling her ears burn tellingly.

          “Out eating souls, no doubt. I try to avoid him, but we did cross paths a few weeks ago. He was sneering about gold fish.”

          As she often was dealing with the Holmes brothers, Molly was confused. “What about goldfish?”

          Sherlock explained about his brother’s stance on people, and how they were all like goldfish to him. _Arsehole_ , Molly thought.

          “He, of course, doesn’t need people. Mycroft may use them, from time to time, but never out of need. He’s incredibly manipulative,” said one of the most manipulative men Molly had ever known. She rolled her eyes.

          “I believe the closest he comes to any kind of companion is some frigid embassy type whom he squires on state occasions and occasionally uses to satiate his disgusting desires.” Sherlock made an expression of distaste, and Molly smiled weakly.

          _So he has someone,_ she thought, incredibly depressed, _some groomed and gracious blueblood no doubt, someone who fits in his world, knows her place in it and understands that’s all she’ll get of him. She probably doesn’t want more; she won’t bother him to watch movies and accidentally spill popcorn on his suit, and babble too much, and force him to do things that make him uncomfortable, and kiss him and then obsess about it for months._

          It was time to forget about Mycroft Holmes and their short-lived friendship. She had served her purpose and he had left her behind.

          They went to back to their work, and Molly pretended not to notice when Sherlock cast the occasional considering glance her way.

          Later that night—another night in which Tom wouldn’t be staying over—Sherlock, comfortably attired in the pajamas he now kept in her bottom drawer, climbed into bed and waited for Molly to finish her nightly ablutions. “I can’t imagine you and Mycroft spending any time together,” he called to her.

          “What? I can’t hear you!” Molly lied, turning the water up higher. She took longer than usual getting ready for bed, hoping that he would have moved on by the time she came to bed. Useless, of course, it was Sherlock.

          As soon as she cleared the door he repeated his remark. “Oh,” she said, wanting to buy time but knowing that confidence was the only way to bluff her way through the encounter with any hopes of pride intact. “It was pretty awkward of course, the first few times. But I didn’t have anyone else who knew what I knew about your secret and I really needed to talk about it sometimes. We discussed you, mainly.” This last was a lie; although Sherlock had featured heavily in their early meetings, he hadn’t been the only reason they kept coming together. At least, she hadn’t thought so.

          Sherlock was nicely distracted. “What did you talk about?”

          “He kept me updated on how you were—well, he let me know that you were alive—and I told him about how we met and the experiments and cases we’ve worked on together. And he told me about when you were younger.”

          “Whatever he told you was a lie,” Sherlock said immediately.

          Molly grinned at him, “I’ll take it all as gospel truth then.”

          “What did he tell you?”

          “Stories about the two of you growing up…about how hard it was on both of you being such brainy dicks and alienating everyone around you, and about playing pirates, and Redbeard, and how Mrs. Hudson came to be your nanny when he went to university, and about you being a ginger.”

          Even though she had half muttered the last, of course he caught it. “Mycroft used to be quite fat, you know!” He fired off immediately, sitting up straight in the bed. “He was like a lap dog, all round and wheezing with asthma.”   

          That explained quite a good deal, Molly reflected. His complicated relationship with food, his self-deprecating remarks about his weight, the way he had mentioned once (after one glass too many of brandy) that Sherlock had gotten all the looks in the family—even if he did dye his hair.

          “Don’t be ugly, Sherlock. Mycroft has done such a great deal for you, and it’s obvious to me that he cares for you, even if both of you are rubbish at showing tenderness.”  

          He gagged and gave her an appalled look, “Margaret Louise Hooper, if you keep on talking like that I’m leaving.”

          “Oh don’t get stroppy.”

          They glared at one another, and Molly wondered how she had gotten to this point in her life; in love with one brother and sleeping with the other. If anyone ever found out she shared a bed with Sherlock Holmes, no matter that it was platonic, at least once a week, they’d think she was a pushover and a no-hoper.

          Ever since she had helped Sherlock care for his wounds upon his return, he had taken to appearing at her flat on a semi-regular basis and somehow maneuvered his way into her bed. Tom was never there, and indeed the two hadn’t yet met aside from briefly, at John and Mary’s engagement drinks party. Molly worried sometimes about what would happen to Sherlock when she married. With no John around to keep him at least somewhat in line and to police his behavior and provide the companionship he needed but wouldn’t admit to, and with her soon to be sharing a bed nightly with her husband, Molly was afraid that Sherlock was in danger of going off the rails.

          He hadn’t said anything, but she noticed that he either avoided talking about Mary and John’s wedding, or alternately would get on a fetish of wedding planning and obsess over details. Molly had a pretty good idea of what was truly bothering him, but wasn’t sure he had realized what the problem was.

          As far as their own relationship went, she was touched to be let so far into his life; neither of them had talked about the reason for his nightmares, nor his need to sleep with her so he could get some rest, aside from an aborted attempt on her part. Sherlock made it clear he didn’t want to talk about whatever he had endured in Serbia, and they had never discussed the details of his night terrors, but she had noticed that at least they seemed less severe as time passed.

          Part of their nightly ritual was to complete a Sudoku puzzle together. Or rather, Molly tried to solve the puzzle and Sherlock would point out her mistakes. “Shut it, smarty,” she complained good-naturedly, shoving him in the side with her elbow. “Help me, don’t just sneer.”

          He ended up leaning into her, his chin propped on her shoulder and they finished the puzzle together. “There!” Molly exclaimed in satisfaction, slapping the book shut and putting it in her nightstand drawer, “Wasn’t that more fun to do constructively?”

          “Don’t patronize, Molly,” he rolled his eyes and moved to lie down as she removed her reading glasses and plugged in her mobile. He lay on his side and she automatically went to nestle into him, as had become their custom. Tonight however, he shifted away as she snuggled closer and finally huffed out an exasperated breath, “Stay still, Molly.”

          “Sorry?” she looked over her shoulder at him in confusion.

          “It’s purely a physiological response; however, given the existence of your fiancé, it would probably be best if you stayed on your side of the bed tonight.”

          “Oh,” fighting a blush, Molly moved away from the center of the bed and put her back to Sherlock, “yes, of course. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

          “Goodnight, Molly.”

          She lay in the darkness, wondering if there was something wrong with her morals. Although, on more than one occasion, Sherlock had woken with a morning erection, neither of them had made a big noise about it. Nothing sexual had happened between them in all the nights he had come to sleep in her bed. Now she thought she knew why he was aroused, and even though she wasn’t the intended recipient, she felt a desire to comfort him by moving into his arms and initiating sex. Her first thought should have been of Tom; Molly had never cheated in her life, and she didn’t intend to start. But oddly, her first thought had not been that she would betray Tom, her fiancé, but a resistance to the idea of hurting Mycroft.

          _Ridiculous_ , she thought, blinking back tears, _you’re really ridiculous my girl. He’s nothing to you, and you are definitely nothing to him._

          Sherlock didn’t ask any questions that night when she woke him; she was crying in her sleep, sounding lost and afraid, and he hesitated before reaching out to pull her to him. He wrapped his long arms and legs around her and tucked her head under his chin. He could tell precisely when she woke, but even then neither of them spoke…they just held one another in the dark.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the nightmare over? Or just beginning? And will Molly ever find her happiness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to wait a bit since the new season was premiering, before I added Chapter Three. Words fail me. I honestly don't know if I will continue to try weave this series of tales between the TV series. Previously I was trying to mainly keep to canon, but now I'm all aflutter. Enjoy this for now!

_Several months later…_

          Meena stepped back and checked her work, “You look smashing, if I say it myself.”

          Molly turned around and faced the vanity mirror, sucking in her breath, “Wowza!”

          “I know, right? You look ace, Molls.”

          Molly had put her hair on hot rollers, then styled the loose waves to fall over her shoulders, her fringe pulled back with a tiny, jeweled claw clip; it was more effort than she usually put into her hair, preferring braids, buns and ponytails for the most part. Meena had created a dramatic smoky eye, smoothed out Molly’s already-clear complexion with foundation, contouring and blush into flawless perfection, and finished with a soft nude lipstick with a faintly shimmery layer of clear gloss. Molly stood up and checked herself out in the mirror; flare leg jeans, kitten heels and a fragile silky camisole top. It was cold out, and Meena was loaning her a funky fake fur bolero that was almost cut like a little cape, that she had looked forward with excitement to wearing all week.

          The two were getting ready to meet a group of their girlfriends for a night of clubbing, and Molly was looking forward to getting out of her head, drinking too much and dancing until her feet hurt. The last thing she was going to think about was Magnusson’s death, Sherlock’s exile, Moriarity’s unsettling video broadcast, or the almost complete lack of information she had received from Sherlock, John or Mary about what exactly the hell was going on.

          The two of them had been drinking while they got ready, and Molly had a pleasant, warm feeling of goodwill. She was still miffed that she hadn’t heard anything from her friends. Initially she had been dumbstruck by the “Miss Me?” clip and had spent the afternoon at work worrying about what it meant. Moriarity was dead. _He shot himself in the head_ , of course he was dead; but then, Sherlock had jumped off a building and look how that turned out. Ultimately, she decided that whatever happened now, she wasn’t going to hide. Moriarity knew where to find her if he wanted, and maybe she was safer in crowds of people than sitting at home, alone.

          So out they were about to go, for a wild girls night as they had planned.

          Molly locked her flat and tucked the key into the tiny Hello Kitty coin purse that was all she was carrying; it held her key, ID, some cash and her pin card, and she could shove it down in her hip pocket. Her mobile fit in her other pocket. Light and ready to go. Meena carried a small purse with a mini arsenal of cosmetics in the event that they needed freshening. Giggling with excitement, they started down the hall, headed for the lift which opened as they approached. Mycroft Holmes, looking serious, dapper, and incredibly tired, glanced up as they nearly collided, and Molly’s heart plummeted to her shoes.

          It had been more than a year since she saw him last, the night he kissed her and then disappeared into Serbia, and out of her life.

          She’d given up hoping they might meet, stopped expecting a text or phone call; and she tried, oh how she tried to stop thinking about him. Her engagement had ended—not least because she was in love with another man—and Molly moved on. Dating a string of men had never been her style, but she decided her old style wasn’t working. Blind dates? She accepted all of them. Dating sites were joined and she made herself go out every weekend and try and meet new people.

          There had been several promising dates and for a few months she had exclusively dated one fellow, Robin, but they had ended it a few weeks prior, and she was single at the moment. But there was no reason for Mycroft to know that (or to care), and Molly had to pull herself up sharply when she wondered if he were coming to see her because she wasn’t dating anyone.

          “Oh, ah, Molly. I was just coming to—“

          Molly squashed the urge to turn to Meena and beg her forgiveness for cancelling their evening. No, no way was she backing out on her friends, especially for a man who had dropped her the way he had. She smiled at her friend, “Meen, can you go on down? I’ll join you in just a minute.”

          “I’ll get a taxi,” Meena said loudly, staring at Mycroft’s bespoke suit, pink tie, checked shirt and pinched expression. “Don’t be long.”

          Mycroft watched Meena stride past him into the lift, as if he had never seen a nearly six foot tall Anglo-Indian woman with purple hair, snakeskin trousers, a bra top and a fringed suede jacket before.

          The doors closed and they were alone in the hallway. “I’m in a hurry as you can see,” Molly said, exquisitely polite, “Was there something I could help you with?”  
          Mycroft glanced around uneasily, “Could we go into your flat?”

          “No.” Molly steeled herself. New, strong Molly. That’s who she was meant to be. Unfortunately the old, soft Molly was wailing that she wanted to hug Mycroft and smooth the worry from his forehead. “I’m on my way out.”

          “I see.” He studied his wingtips rather than meet her eyes. “I had rather hoped that we might talk over a pot of tea. It’s been some time since I had the privilege of your company and I—I wanted to talk.”

          “Thirteen months, three weeks and about five days,” Molly said brusquely, trying to appear hard-hearted.

          “I know. It has also been eight hours and twenty-two minutes since I left.”

          _Don’t give in_ , Molly willed herself not to weaken. “I’m surprised you cared enough to know.”

          Sadness flashed in his eyes, was gone almost before she had time to notice it, but he looked directly at her now, and his face was softer, “I cared…very much…but it seemed to me to be wiser—“

          “Oh no, no you don’t get to come here like this,” Molly sucked in her breath and battled an anger that was threatened to be swamped in sorrow, “You kissed me like you—like you cared, and then you left and I didn’t hear from you again. I was terrified for both you and Sherlock and hardly slept the whole time. Then nothing from you, as if our friendship hadn’t meant anything to you.” She forced out a laugh, “I guess it didn’t, I mean, how much can you care about a goldfish?” His face tightened with anger and she felt a moment of guilt that no doubt a new feud would break out between the brothers. She didn’t give him time to respond, “You just decided all on your own that you knew what was best, as if I don’t have a mind of my own. I was your friend, but you weren’t mine. Not the way I thought. I don’t know what you want tonight, but you’re not getting it. Not until you show me you want to be my friend.”

          Shaking, she swept into the lift, pressed the button and watched as the doors closed, shutting her off from him. Tears threatened, and she could have used a good cry, but she was damned if she was going to wreck her make-up. Letting off tension with a scream, Molly sagged until she came up against the wall. Bloody hell.

 

******

 

          Despite her emotional anguish, the night was not ruined, and in fact Molly was grateful to have her girlfriends and a whole lot of alcohol to distract her. She ended up having a fantastic time, and by the time the taxi dropped her at her building, she was still riding high.

          The unexpected sight of Mycroft leaning against the wall outside her door pulled her up short, but after a minute she proceeded down the hall and fished her coin purse out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She walked past him into the flat and turned to look at him, “Are you coming in?”

          Congratulating herself on how serene she sounded, she waited for him to come in. She was gobsmacked that he was here, at almost two in the morning. Even more stunning was the fact that he was wearing jeans. Actual, real jeans. And an open-necked button down, a shawl collar cardigan, paisley scarf and beautifully polished leather straight tip shoes that were slightly too dressy for his outfit but probably the only suitable shoes he had, poor, awkward love. She would never in a million years have believed she would see Mycroft Holmes wearing something so casual. She knew he had done it for her, and her heart was quivering like a blancmange.

          Gratefully, she eased her swollen feet out of her heels and a groan of pleasure mixed with pain slipped out. Shrugging out of the bolero, she crossed the room toward the kitchen, “Tea?”

          Mycroft followed her and watched as she filled the kettle and plugged it in. Molly resisted the urge to find things to busy herself with, and turned to him, putting her hands behind her and leaning against the counter. “It must be important if you waited for me…although I see you went home and changed.”

          “Forgive me if I misunderstood, but you wanted me to show you that I want to be your friend. I took the chance that I could shed my public persona and appear before you as simply—Mycroft.”

          Molly nodded, “It’s a good start,” seeing his face, so carefully not changing expression, she stepped closer until she could reach out and take one of his hands in hers. “I know this must not be easy for you, and it truly does mean a great deal to me to see you as I’m sure you rarely let many people see you.” There was an unspoken question she was asking, and he nodded. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, or try to give me things you can’t. But please, _please_ stop disappearing from my life. My heart can’t take it.”

          “The last thing I intended was to hurt you. I stayed away because I felt I was intruding in the life you were building for yourself. I know I perhaps did a bad job of filling the void when my errant brother left, but until his return you had—Tom.” There was not only a slight hesitation, but a faint hint of distaste, and Molly suppressed a roll of her eyes. Apparently no one was ever going to let her live down Tom. “And then when my brother came back, I assumed, it appears erroneously, that you had no further need for my presence in your life.”

          Tossing aside restraint, Molly cupped his face in her hands, shivering a bit in delight at the faint stubble on his cheeks, and letting her fingers slide a little into his hair, which for once was not severely slicked back but was most devastatingly sexy in its natural state. “Mycroft,” she chided, “You know so much. How could you not know that I can never have too many friends?” She lowered her hands but stayed close to him, toying with his scarf, “You’re not a substitute for Sherlock. You’re you, and I missed you terribly.”

          She anticipated that he might kiss her, and she wasn’t wrong. He leaned down, his hands coming around her arms, but just before he lowered his mouth to hers, he looked at her with a tiny hint of vulnerability, “Is this alright?”

          In answer she stood on tiptoes and kissed him, and when he kissed her back with mounting hunger, she melted against his chest and shivered when he drew her close with a possessive clasp of his arms. Mycroft Holmes might look like an office worker, but he had a satisfyingly firm body and his arms around her felt wonderful. Molly could have kissed him all night. Unfortunately that was not to be; after a few minutes he softened the intensity of the kiss, and then slowly eased his embrace. “I didn’t come here to try and seduce you,” he said ruefully.

          Seeing her face, he hurried on, “Molly, my dear, no—I didn’t meant that I didn’t want this—you…I’m putting this poorly. Please, rest assured that there is no doubt of my desire for you. None,” he said quite firmly. “However, you seem quite happy with your life, and I’m sure it would be all the better for you if I were to remain on the periphery. I merely wanted to come assure myself of your safety, and assuage any fears that you may have. Today’s broadcast caused a lot of uproar, but my brother assures me that Moriarity is indeed dead. It is not without its good points, however, as it appears it will affect Sherlock remaining in the country.”

          Molly’s head was whirling, and she wasn’t entirely certain whether or not she was being given a polite brush off. Finally she decided to work her way backward, “I received several texts from Mary. She told me Sherlock had been summoned back and was working on it. Is he staying in the country for good?”

          “It will depend a good deal on several factors, but for now, yes.”

          “Is he using again?”

          Mycroft looked at her in surprise, then he shook his head with a bit of admiration, “Has my brother been teaching you how to read people? Or is it your own warm heart which grants you such clear vision?”

          It was a rather un-Mycroftian thing to say, and she wanted to kiss him for it. However, while they were still standing in a loose embrace, there was a certain emotional distance between them, and she was timid about breaching it. “I think I just know you and Sherlock rather well, that’s all.” Honesty compelled her to add, “Also, he was rather high the other night when he came to tell me goodbye.”

          Mycroft looked pained, “He was supposed to be on house arrest once I secured his removal from the prison cell he was in. I had my best people watching him, how did he – never mind.”

          A smile touched her mouth, “He’s bloody-minded, you know that.”

          “Indeed he is. Yes, he was dangerously high today, he had mixed more than one drug and we nearly lost him.” He spoke steadily, but she could feel the tension in his body. “He was raving and kept slipping in and out of consciousness. He is on the mend now; John and Mary are with him.”

          Fear gripped Molly; worse than the idea of Moriarity’s return was the thought that they might lose Sherlock.

          “There’s no chance that Moriarity pulled a Sherlock and faked his death?”

          “None,” Mycroft said firmly. “He is quite dead, that is certain. What is unknown at this point is who is behind the video.”

          “I’ve no doubt between the two of you, it will be solved.” Molly looked down at her feet and spoke quickly, “I am happy with my life, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still room in it for you.” She sucked in a deep breath, “If you want to be in it.”

          “I don’t have any friends, Molly, only allies and social acquaintances. As my brother appears to have informed you, to me, most people are about as complicated and appealing as goldfish. I’ve never felt the lack of friendship. I have no idea how to be a friend, and I don’t suppose I will be very good at it. But if you do want me, flaws and all, I will do my best to be yours.”

          Feeling horribly exposed, Molly swallowed several times before she could ask, “Is that all you want to be? Friends?”

          Mycroft looked away, “I have examined it from all angles and determined that it would be the wisest course of action.”

          “Then why kiss me?” Molly demanded, the threat of tears drying up in the heat of her anger. She didn’t have a huge temper, but there was a tipping point for even the mildest of people. “I’m happy to be your friend, and for you to be mine. But it’s unfair for you to kiss me like that. Friends don’t kiss like that!”

          To his credit, Mycroft looked a tad ashamed, “I’ll deny it if you ever tell anyone, but I have my weaknesses like anyone else. I’m afraid the temptation to kiss you was too great.”

          “Will you be able to resist in the future?” Molly asked sarcastically, “If we’re to be just friends, I can accept it.” _Liar_ , she thought. But that was her cross to bear. Friendship with Mycroft was better than no contact at all, even if she would be wishing for more. “But it’s not fair for you to kiss me whenever you feel like it, if we’re to be just friends.”

          “This is why I tried to stay away,” he sighed. He leaned against the back of the sofa and rubbed the back of his neck, “I knew it was a bad idea.”

          “What’s so objectionable about being more than friends?” Molly asked, seating herself at the kitchen table and leaning her elbows on the surface, propping her tired head on her hands. She felt weary, dispirited and lonely. “Do you not like me...is it only a physical attraction?”

          Mycroft looked exhausted, and pained to be discussing feelings. She found it hard to feel sorry for him; it was late, he had barged into her life after a year’s worth of silence and neglect, and now he was pulling on her emotions as if they were the strings to a puppet, while trying to deny his own. Finally he spoke, sounding as if he begrudged the words. “There is no denying I am physically drawn to you. However…there is more to it than that. I find myself wanting to be with you, wanting to spend time in your company. When we first met, I was not terribly impressed by you; I found you insipid, naïve and tiresome.”

          Outraged, Molly opened her mouth, only to have her objection snatched away as he continued. “However, the more time I spent in your company, the more I came to acknowledge and value your many excellent qualities.” He sounded characteristically stuffy, but Molly was willing to overlook that, because she was looking at his face, which wasn’t as guarded as usual. Something that made her heart beat faster was peeking out from behind his usual impassive mask. “You are steadfast, loyal, kind, but intelligent and resourceful. But it isn’t only these _things_ , you see…it’s something else I can’t quite define, something you make me feel…” Mycroft shrugged and finished helplessly, “I think it might be happiness.”

          _Screw restraint_. Molly launched herself at him, and a very surprised Mycroft barely had time to brace himself and catch her. Molly straddled his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. Heretofore, she would have rated their kisses as among the best— and hottest— she had ever experienced. Now she knew how wrong she had been. Not just because of the lust that slammed into her like a tidal wave and threatened to pull her under, but because she was suddenly physically on fire in all her nerve endings, and felt as if she were burning up, Molly now wanted to rip off her clothes. Mycroft must have been feeling the heat too; his hands burned through the denim over her hips, slid up under her thin, silk top and blazed a trail up the highly sensitive skin of her back.

          In a more clearheaded moment, no doubt both of them would be embarrassed by the panting and moaning and the visceral, animalistic sound of the passion that was overwhelming them. For now, they were equally in thrall. One of them—Molly wasn’t sure which of them it was—divested her of her top and Mycroft was just sliding his hands over her lace covered breasts when the sound of her door being unlocked penetrated his alert mind and with unbelievable swiftness he scooped her off his lap, swooped down to gather her top and gave her a light push toward the bedroom. “Go,” he whispered, turning to straighten himself and slip back into his public persona.

          By the time Sherlock had the front door lock unpicked, Molly was in her bedroom swiftly shrugging into her robe and Mycroft was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs—erection safely hidden by the table—waiting for his brother.

          “Ah, Sherlock. Sneaky as ever. Did you not think that on this day in which the infamous James Moriarity has miraculously returned from the dead, and this late at night, that it might be better to call Ms. Hooper rather than pick her lock in the middle of the night?”

          Sherlock swiftly recovered his shock. “What are you doing here?” He sneered, “Don’t you have better things to do than inflict yourself on my friends?”

          In the bedroom, Molly shimmied out of her jeans and bundled her hair into a ponytail, rolling her eyes at the sound of the brother’s bickering. Some things never changed. Glancing in the mirror to see if she looked suitably like a woman who had been headed for bed—alone—before company arrived, she nearly shrieked. She had forgotten about her make up! Her smoky eye had now migrated onto her cheekbones, making her look as if she had been crying. Actually, that might work in her favor. Thank heavens she hadn’t been wearing a bold lipstick, or it would be smeared all over Mycroft’s mouth right now!

          She clutched the robe around her and shuffled into the room, sniffling. “Can’t you two stop fighting for once? I’ve an awful headache.” Bypassing the two of them and very carefully not making it look as if she was avoiding eye contact while doing just that, she went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle which had turned itself off.

          “Why do you look like that?” Sherlock asked when she reappeared.

          “Oh goodness!” Molly’s hand flew to her face and then her hair. “I must look a fright…I’ve been crying.” She sat down in her small arm chair and clutched a pillow to her as if for comfort. “Mycroft came by to tell me that M-Moriarity was no threat, but I’ve been buggered all day! That awful video!” She buried her face in the pillow and hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

          Sighing heavily, Sherlock dropped onto the couch and crossed his feet on one of the needlepointed pillows her granny had made. Molly harrumphed and leaned over to snatch it out from under his shoes. “If you don’t mind,” she said sweetly, “Could you at least take off your coat and shoes if you’re going to make yourself at home?”

          “Are my pajamas clean?” Sherlock asked, without moving. He steepled his fingers under his chin and cut his eyes to Mycroft. “I always think more clearly after sleeping with you. I have a lot to ponder.”

          Mycroft got up abruptly and went into the kitchen. Molly held her breath and hoped she hadn’t lost him. After a minute or two he emerged and crossed to bring her tea in her favorite unicorn mug. “It’s late, Ms. Hooper, and I must be going. You’ll be quite safe with my brother here. Sherlock,” nodding at his brother he left, closing the door softly behind him.

          “Honestly,” Sherlock said, “my brother has no manners. Why would he come here so late and then leave so quickly?” Molly didn’t answer, knee-deep in her own miserable thoughts.

 

******

 

          Coming off a high such as he had experienced, Sherlock wasn’t really in the mood to sleep, plus, as he had stated truthfully, he had much to think about. Irritatingly, he couldn’t stop thinking about the slight differences in his brother that he had noticed, the oddness of Molly Hooper’s attitude regarding said brother, and the nauseating scene he had witnessed when Mycroft got jealous and stormed out. To anyone else it might have appeared as if Mycroft were in control of himself, perhaps even slightly bored.

          Sherlock, however, had known him all his life and he knew the signs. Unbelievable as it seemed, his brother appeared to have a _tendre_ for mousy Molly Hooper.

          What he couldn’t quite figure out, and the contemplation of which he found all the more unbelievable, was whether or not the feelings were reciprocated. Several times he had caught a certain tone in her voice when she spoke of Mycroft. And tonight, as his brother leaned over to hand her the tea, around his mouth there had been the merest ghosting of light on what appeared to be the very same glitter, traces of which remained on Molly’s mouth.

          Weighing of proof against speculation ceased when Molly, who had been curled on her side next to him, peacefully asleep, suddenly laughed, startling a wide-awake Sherlock, who was lying in bed. Following her delighted laugh, she cuddled the pillow she had been clasping in her arms closer and sighed happily, “Mycroft.”


End file.
